Archives for October 2015

Breakfast

Francine poured a cup of coffee and went outside to sit beneath the hemlock. It had been a rewarding though hectic family visit. They left behind a supply of vodka, beer, used linens, wet towels and plenty of sand.

She pondered on her sons’ lives: David attempting to be father of the century to compensate for the dubious mental state and physical health of his wife. Cookie, the dog was company for Jay who was in the midst of a nasty divorce from his irrational wife.

It was 10:30 a.m. The sun was high. Francine opted for vodka over coffee.

Spring Break

He stood in the drive as we drove away.
His eyes said it all: “I wish I were going, too.”
In the car, one grandmother, two granddaughters, and one empty seat.
“Why didn’t Papa want to come?” one asked.

Devotion

Saturday morning, I’m at the local bead shop. It’s like a candy store to me, filled with bins and strings of prismatic glass and crystal beads. I crave color the way some people crave food. I need my fix and fill.

I pick up a looped string of turquoise fire polished crystal beads. Each faceted face reflects a different iridescent hue, reminding me of the shimmering water of my last Caribbean vacation. I must have the entire string. It is my rosary, every bead a memory of past devotion.

THE DEW FAIRY

The woods and wildflowers surrounding the weather-beaten boardwalk leading to the lake were wet with dewdrops when I chanced upon a magical creature sitting atop a queen-anne-lace flower. A spider web enveloped the flower and sunlight had prismed the fairy. I held my breath lest she fly away.

When I returned from my swim, only the flower and spider web remained—the dewdrops evaporated by the sun.

Years later, I returned to that boardwalk hoping to find the dew-fairy of my childhood. She has never evaporated from my memory.

Matthew 7:12

Patty and I are enjoying our annual holiday “girls’ night” – until the blond, well-dressed woman in front of us raises her voice. “You stupid fool! You should be fired!”

Hands trembling, the saleswoman fumbles with her change, makes a mess of giftwrapping, apologizing again and again. Embarrassed, we’re glad when the shopper rolls her eyes, tosses her hair and departs.

Patty hands her packages and credit card to the now tearful woman, picks up a candy bar, adds it to the pile. As we leave she gives the chocolate to the saleswoman.

Wounds of a Soldier

He was trained to stare into the eyes of others and watch the blood run out.
They devoted his thoughts to the historic idea of killing at any cost.

When he returned home, he was called a hero. They drained him with saluted salutations and hooked him on oxycontin, clorapan and opiates, which eventually led to heroin on the streets.
“We become wounded in the soul,” he said. “Something no drug can fix.”
He told me once that no one should ever come back alive, no one.
That the true mercy of war would be if no one came back alive.

Silver dollar pancakes he calls them. We exhale with batter’s melting spread. We flip these coins. Saturdays, we amass treasure on oven-warmed plates.

Rachael Ikins
Central New York Branch, NY

Editor’s note: I’ve gotten so many great submissions for Flash Fiction October, I’m turning this into Flash Fiction Fall! Please continue, Pen Women, to write and send, if you haven’t contributed yet. Remember: 1 entry per Pen Woman, 100 words or fewer, your name and branch or MAL under your story, and be creative! The best 30 will be included in a chapbook. I have a story that got separated from its email titled Matthew 7:2 without a name–please let me know if it’s yours. The Poem of the Week will return in November. –Treanor Baring